A Love Like No Other
by Altego
Summary: My attempt at a platonic post Reichenbach reunion story (sort of). I can't write these two without something verging on romance though because, even in the original stories, they're clearly in love.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Don't own, wish I did.**

They were running, it was their last night together; it was always their last night together.

"Take my hand," he said and reached out to John, their fingers brushed and then three shots rang out and Sherlock fell. John yelled, made a move to catch his friend as he stumbled to the ground, but missed. And then there was blood, so much blood.

The dreams always ended the same way. There were variations of course, John's mind was more imaginative than Sherlock ever gave him credit for. But the ultimate outcome was the same, John on his knees beside a dying Sherlock, his hands covered in his best friend's blood.

Over the past year, Sherlock had been shot, run over, stabbed, attacked by the imaginary hound, blown up and he'd fallen from heights. He'd fallen from heights so many times, in a parody of that fateful day, where John had watched him fall for real. The one thing John never understood about these dreams, was why Sherlock never fell from the roof of Bart's. It was as if John's mind wouldn't allow him to imagine the real circumstances of Sherlock's death, so it invented all these other cruel ways in which Sherlock might have died and where John could never save him, never catch him before he hit the ground.

But there was one familiar thing John could count on, the dreams all ended at the same point. John was at that point now, knelt beside Sherlock who was trying to speak through the blood filling his lungs. John held Sherlock's face in his hands, willing him to live, to hang on for the ambulance, even though he knew it was futile.

"One more miracle. Please! For me, Sherlock." John had no idea who pulled these words from him, the words he'd spoken the one and only time he could bear to visit Sherlock's grave. He'd tried to tell himself he wouldn't say them the next time he had the dream, but he always did.

"It's just a magic trick John" The words Sherlock always said and then he breathed his last. In his dream, John wailed in despair, as the shrill noise of the ambulance siren pierced the night. In his bedroom, John shot bolt upright in bed with a yell, sweat pouring off him and the alarm screeching in his ear. He slammed his hand onto his phone to stop the noise.

Beside him his fiancé Mary sat up sleepily, her face betraying her concern.

"Oh sweetie, again?"

"Mmmhmm" John didn't trust himself to speak just yet. He lifted his trembling hands to his face and breathed loudly and steadily to stop the lump in his throat from turning to tears.

"And we were doing so well, the last one was a fortnight ago."

"I know" John whispered, his voice cracking. "So real, every time it's just so horribly … Oh god, Sherlock you bastard, why?" John thumped the bed hard and dashed a stray tear from his face. Mary moved to hug him and they held one another in silence for a while.

"I suppose I better get up and get to work" John said, his voice steadier now.

"Why not stay home today and tell them you're ill?"

"No, I've been _ill_ too many times and they're likely to fire me if I keep doing this. Besides, it'll probably be good for me now that … well, you know. Ella said so, it'll keep me busy." John couldn't bring himself to say 'Now we've cleared Sherlock's name', as that would acknowledge that he'd reached the end of his association with the consulting detective. One of the few things that had kept him going since Sherlock's death had been his dedication, in proving to the world that Sherlock hadn't been a fraud and that Moriarty had been real. This was how he'd met Mary.

Several weeks after the funeral John had made a conscious decision not to go back to the way he'd been when he'd met Sherlock. If he did that, it was likely he'd be another ex-military suicide statistic before the month was out. Instead he'd placed ads, on the internet, in the media, on the street, using the homeless network and telling anyone who'd listen.

"_Wanted! Person, or persons who have been clients of Sherlock Holmes and can prove that their cases were not orchestrated by the consulting detective himself. Please contact Dr John H. Watson via his blog, or send correspondence to 221B Baker Street, London, NW1 6XE."_

At first John had been inundated with comments and mail. Many had been genuine, but some had been horrible bile about his friend being a liar and a sick, twisted fraud. Some were from bored internet trolls who wanted to gloat about John's pain and insinuate that he and Sherlock had been lovers who'd scammed the world. But the worst had been those comments saying Sherlock deserved to die, not because he'd been a fake, but because he'd been gay, or a mentally ill freak. John vowed that once Sherlock's name had been cleared, he would ask Mycroft to trace the IP address of every perpetrator and John would think up a suitable revenge.

It was thanks to Mycroft that John had been able to give up work and dedicate his time to clearing Sherlock's name. Mycroft had paid the rent on John's new flat and 221B. This meant John could keep the Baker Street address for seeing any clients who wanted to help exonerate the detective, but he could also live somewhere that didn't constantly remind him of what he'd lost. John assumed Mycroft did this out of guilt for what had happened. The two men got on coolly, for the sake of the work, but otherwise, John had little contact with the elder Holmes, who he still blamed heavily for his loss.

It had been a few months into the work when Mary Morstan had sent him a blog comment from America.

"_Sherlock Holmes found my father's killer after 20 years and returned a stolen legacy that was rightfully mine. I moved to the US with the money, but I will happily fly back to the UK to help clear this wonderful man's name. I was devastated to hear of his death."_

John had met Mary in 221B and as soon as she'd sat opposite him, he'd fallen in love. Mary later told him the feeling had been mutual. The two had been inseparable ever since and she'd added money and resources to aid John in his work. After two years, they had the details of over a hundred cases where Sherlock couldn't possibly have invented the crimes, but had certainly solved them. A few months ago they'd presented the evidence privately to New Scotland Yard and then publicly to the world's media and Sherlock Holmes had become a hero once more. Mary, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Molly had been elated. Mycroft had been quietly pleased.

John had felt … numb. He thought he'd feel overwhelmed with emotion and that happiness would follow. He'd proposed to Mary that same day in an attempt to feel something and at the time it had given him the euphoria he'd been craving. But the day after, he'd felt numb again and he realised what that feeling was now. Sherlock's name had been cleared, John had no more need to see clients, to re-live Sherlock's adventures, to write and talk about his best friend, to work towards a goal that involved the great Sherlock Holmes. John would have to say a proper, final goodbye to Sherlock and he would give anything not to have to do that.

He didn't regret his proposal to Mary, not in the least, but he realised the gesture had been an attempt to replace the thrill of the work with the thrill of romance and the hope of having something to look forward to in the future. Now he knew how Sherlock had felt and why he'd shunned relationships; it just wasn't the same.

John kissed his fiancé, sighed and got out of bed with a groan. He rolled his shoulders back and winced. He'd half expected his limp to return after Sherlock had died, but his brain had a sense of irony. This time it had been the actual wound in his left shoulder that had begun plaguing him and on the worst days, it was making his hand tremble once more with the pain.

Mary rolled over to go back to sleep and John began to walk to the bathroom when the phone went off again. It took John a second to realise that it wasn't his alarm and that someone was ringing him. He made a move to answer it but, thinking John had already left the room, Mary rolled over and picked it up.

"Hello, John's phone, Mary speaking … erm, well he's due in work today, but … yes, well he's here I can pass him on" 'Greg', she mouthed as she passed John his mobile.

Lestrade had been good to John after Sherlock's death. He'd been the only officer who hadn't believed the lies Moriarty had told, but for his complicity in bringing Sherlock in on so many cases, he'd been demoted to Detective Sergeant, whilst an investigation took place. Despite this, he'd helped a lot with the quest to clear Sherlock and now the Consulting Detective was exonerated, the investigation into Lestrade's conduct had been dropped and he'd been re-instated as a Detective Inspector. He sometimes consulted John on cases, much to Anderson's disgust, as the forensics officer thought that bringing John in was an affront to his medical expertise. John fully expected Lestrade to be calling about a case, but John was due in the surgery today and was prepared to tell him he wouldn't be able to make it.

"Hi Greg, what is it?"

"Hey mate, listen, you need to come in."

"What? Why? I can't. Wednesday to Friday are my days at the surgery remember. And I can't afford to get fired cos, well, you know what next week is." John shivered slightly at the thought of the third anniversary of Sherlock's death. "Me and Mary need to be out of London for that day. I need the money for the holiday and … "

"John, this is about that day, I, well I don't know how to tell you this over the phone, so that's why I need you to come to the station. Interview rooms, third floor."

"Greg you're worrying me, what's so important that …?"

"Don't be worried, but Mycroft, Molly and Mrs Hudson are all on their way, he needs … sorry, we need you too."

"He? Who? Mycroft?"

"What?"

"You said 'He' Greg, who do you mean?" John's voice was trembling now. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach that heralded fight, or flight. John didn't know whether to be scared of the thoughts invading his mind, or hopeful.

"Look John, just tell the surgery you've been summoned to Scotland Yard on government business, I'll get Mycroft to call them as well. I'm sure they can't argue with the British Government."

John snorted. "Who can Greg?" His voice sounded unsteady in his ears.

"John, don't worry, ok? It's to your advantage that you do this. I'll see you shortly." He hung up. John stared at his phone, only breaking his reverie when Mary spoke.

"What's all that about?"

"I've no idea, some revelation waiting for me at Scotland Yard, but I'd better go love." John grabbed an armful of clothes, headed to the bathroom and within 15 minutes was showered and dressed. He returned to the bedroom to find Mary sat reading and kissed her goodbye. "It's so odd, but I like Greg being all mysterious. I feel" He inhaled deeply, searching for the right words "alive all of a sudden." John grinned and Mary grinned back at him.

"See you later sweetie." But, as John left, Mary's grin faded to a frown. She knew exactly what awaited John at Scotland Yard and she had a horrible feeling that it could spell the end of their relationship. It all depended on how John Watson felt about white lies.


	2. Chapter 2

John arrived to find the third floor deathly quiet. A few officers were stood around gossiping in whispers and when John walked in they turned to look at him strangely. Some had hard, accusatory stares, others just appeared confused. John wanted to ask them what the hell was going on, but the sick feeling in his stomach, like he was approaching the top of a roller coaster, propelled him through the doors to the interview rooms. He could see Anderson and Donovan stood in front of the two way glass of Interview Room 1, facing away from whatever was taking place inside. Anderson looked ready to vomit and Donovan was scowling. They both stopped talking as John opened the door. Anderson drew himself up to his full height.

"Did you know? Were you in on it? I don't believe what he says you know, I think you were. What a horrible, twisted …"

"What the hell?" John strode forward and squared his shoulders, countering Anderson's attempt to appear imposing with his own military stance.

Donovan was about to add something to Anderson's diatribe when the door to the interview room opened and Lestrade stepped out. Inside John could hear what sounded like Mrs Hudson crying.

"Anderson, Donovan, just don't ok, he has no idea and breaking it to him this way would be cruel." They both stood down and despite their scowls, nodded at their boss.

"Greg" John really did feel sick now, "for the love of god tell me what this is, because it's obviously something to do with Sherlock and the suspense is killing me." John's voice was trembling and his knees felt weak.

Greg pushed the door back, holding it open and gesturing for John to walk ahead of him, with his attempt at a reassuring smile. The crying was softer now, as if his former landlady had gotten control of herself. John was shaking as he approached the door, he could hear the blood rushing in his ears and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

The first thing he saw was Mycroft's back and two uniformed officers flanking him, Molly was stood to one side, her eyes met John's guiltily. Mycroft turned and motioned for the officers either side of him to step back and let John through, that was when he saw Mrs Hudson, hugging and being hugged by a tall, curly haired figure in a long coat.

John felt the room swaying. He half expected a bullet to come flying past his ear, a madman to rush in and stab the figure, or someone to push him out of the window; he expected this scene to end the same way as all of his dreams, because he was convinced this must also be a dream.

He watched Mycroft step forward, to take charge of a still crying Mrs Hudson, who as she turned, saw John and said his name in between her hiccoughing sobs.

"Ms Hooper, would you take Mrs Hudson home? We'll be along shortly." Mycroft handed her over to Molly, who hugged her, both women smiling broadly.

But John only just registered this, as his eyes were locked with those of the figure in front of the window and everything else was fading away. He felt Greg take his elbow and realised that he must have been falling sideways, as the angles of the room righted themselves once more. The figure stepped towards him with a look of concern, guilt and was that affection in his eyes? He reached out a hand.

"John." It was all he said, one word and it had the effect of making the world come rushing back in. John practically gasped his response; he hadn't realised that he'd been holding his breath.

"Sher … Sherlock?!"

Sherlock's fingers touched John's arm and the smaller man recoiled as if he'd been burnt.

"I can't do this!" John's voice was flat, emotionless, he turned his back on everyone except Greg and pulled the DI's fingers from his elbow. "Tell him I'm glad he's alive and I hope he stays safe." And John made a move to walk to the door, but the assorted gathering cried out for him to wait, that he needed to hear why, that it'd been to save his life. And amidst the various voices, frantically clamouring for him to stay, John's knees gave way and he fell.

At least he would have fallen, if a pair of strong arms hadn't wrapped around him from behind and held him up. A deep voice at his ear kept the world from fading to black.

"Stay with me soldier, that's an order." John began dragging air into his lungs slowly and deliberately. He wouldn't cry, not in front of these people, he wouldn't. The hands that had caught him turned him around and pulled him into an embrace, allowing him to bury his face in a warm chest and hide his threatening tears from his friends.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held on for all he was worth. Around him he could hear Lestrade, ushering people out of the room. From somewhere to his left Mycroft spoke.

"I'm sorry DI Lestrade, but the reason we're here is that my brother has information pertinent to the Government and …"

"Mr Holmes, this is my station, my interview room and after everything that's happened over the past three years, you _will_ give John time to come to terms with this, do you understand me."

There was a silence in which John could picture Mycroft quietly seething and then a sigh. "Well Inspector, I believe I could use a break for lunch, perhaps your helpful officers here would show me the way to the canteen."

"Baker Street, one hour Mycroft, the house opposite, number 224." John could feel Sherlock's voice, reverberating through his chest, the sound was glorious.

John presumed Mycroft had acquiesced because the door closed with a hiss and then it was just him and Sherlock. John gave in to the shivers wracking his body and the lump in his throat and sobbed three years worth of grief into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock tried to remember the last time he'd hugged someone that hadn't been his childhood nanny, or Mrs Hudson and came up blank. He'd never dealt with a crying friend before, indeed, he'd never had a friend before John. For a while Sherlock's hands remained stiff and awkward against John's back and his face betrayed his consternation; he knew he should comfort John, but he wasn't really sure how a hug was supposed to accomplish that, what did normal people do? Suddenly it came to him, something he'd seen in a cheesy soap opera once. Sherlock wrapped his left arm tighter around John's back and brought his right hand up to cradle John's head. He moved his thumbs in a stroking motion and lowered his chin to rest on the top of John's head, making shushing noises as he did so.

He felt John smile through his tears and respond to his gesture, by hugging him a lot tighter. Eventually the army doctor calmed himself enough to pull away from his friend and Sherlock reached onto the desk, passing John a packet of tissues that Mrs Hudson had all but decimated. John cleaned his face and then just looked at Sherlock in silence for a while. Sherlock stared right back, not sure if he should break the silence, or how John might react. He never could read his blogger's emotions. His actions yes, but never his emotions. That's why he found John Watson so fascinating.

"I moved out. I met someone." John spoke first, his voice trembling, surprising himself that the first words out of his mouth were almost an apology for abandoning 221B, as if he'd betrayed a lover.

"I know, Mary isn't it? I believe her to be satisfactory." Sherlock looked almost bored, like he knew exactly what John had been up to.

"What?" John looked concerned now "What do you know about her?"

"Nothing bad John, I'm sure she genuinely loves you and everything she told you about her case and what I did for her is true. However, I sent her to you, she was your bodyguard." John stumbled again then, reaching out to the desk for support.

"What?"

"It's what she was doing, in the States, working for a private security firm."

"She's … No, she was a teacher … But she's … What the hell?"

"You're angry about that, I suppose."

"Angry? Sherlock, she lied, you both … Oh god, she knew you were… all this time … How many more people Sherlock?"

"How many more people what?" But Sherlock knew what John meant, he felt sick now with the thought that John might take this whole thing as a betrayal of their friendship and never forgive him.

"YOU KNOW DAMN WELL WHAT". John looked ready to punch him, he was practically hyperventilating. It was time for Sherlock to explain and explain fast. So he did the only thing he could think of, he grabbed hold of John's arms and began to speak as fast as he could.

"Your life was in danger, Moriarty had three snipers trained on you, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. He killed himself before I could obtain the call off code and the plan was to kill you, unless I committed suicide. But I'd deduced what he'd planned, so I took a gamble inviting him up to the roof and hoping he'd go for the obvious method by making me jump. Molly set things up, with a cadaver and a linen truck for me to land in, the homeless network drugged you and acted the parts of passers by and paramedics. And I couldn't let anyone else but her and Mycroft know I was ok until I'd killed those snipers, because they were paid to return and kill you if I ever turned up alive. There's still one out there and he's after you John and I'd still be in hiding, except he knows I'm alive, because I was careless and he's clever and I need to protect you. Mary can't guard you alone any more and she called me back and she may have lied, but she loves you very much and so do I and I've lost three years of my life to keep you safe and I will not let you die now John Watson, so don't you dare walk out on me."

John stood there for a second taking in everything Sherlock had said and watched the agitation on his friend's face, as he contemplated John's next move.

"Say that again, Sherlock."

"John for god's sake, I'm out of breath and you know I hate repeating myself, I won't say all …"

"No, not all of it, just the last sentence, slower this time." Sherlock looked puzzled but began to speak.

"Mary can't guard you alone any more … and she called me back … and she may have lied, but she loves you very much … and so do I …"

"Thank you!" John threw his arms around his friend once more and it hit Sherlock then just what he'd said.

"You're a sentimental idiot," Sherlock muttered softly, smiling and placing his arms back around his friend. He began to stroke his hand over John's head, feeling the rough cut of his hair beneath his fingers. "But I believe that I don't mind as much as I should."

"I love you too," John whispered, pulling back and looking up at Sherlock, overwhelming affection and joy shining in his eyes. There wasn't a hint of a blush on John's cheeks and Sherlock was confused, shouldn't John be embarrassed about this, being so vehemently straight and engaged to a woman no less? This could get awkward, would Sherlock have to repeat what he'd said to John the first day they'd met, about being married to his work and not being interested in that sort of thing? John could see Sherlock trying to work things out.

"As a friend you idiot." John laughed and Sherlock visibly relaxed, smiling now and realising that not only was John not complicating their relationship, but he might just have forgiven him for putting him through such an ordeal. Sherlock leaned down and kissed John's forehead and this time the army doctor did blush, glancing sideways, briefly, to the two way mirror.

"People are going to talk again Sherlock."

"Let them John, I don't care what they think, as long as you stay alive and you stay my friend." Sherlock leaned in and kissed John's forehead once more before pulling him back into a hug.

Later they would go back to Mary and after a lot of explaining John would properly forgive both his fiancé and his best friend for their deception. Later they would discuss their plans to stop the final sniper, along with Mycroft and Lestrade in an empty house opposite 221B and Sherlock would be his usual jealous self, upon realising that John's marriage would mean John living with Mary and not with him. Not too much later than that, John's love and loyalty would be tested to the limit and he would go through hell and back for the man he was holding in his arms. But this would show John Watson that the worth of a true friend can never be quantified, that some bonds are greater than those of blood, or marriage and that a soulmate isn't always a lover.

Right now though, Sally Donovan stood, slightly guiltily, watching this drama of friendship and forgiveness play out from behind a two way mirror. She couldn't quite understand what this was between Sherlock and John, if it wasn't a love affair. She was so intent on what was happening in the room that she missed the weak reflection of Mycroft Holmes looming behind her. When he spoke she almost screamed with fright.

"Touching isn't it?"

"I … erm … I wasn't … I was just …"

"I know Ms Donovan, you were spying, like the nosey little brat you are, perhaps working out how you can use this relationship between my brother and John to your advantage." Sally became defensive and shot Mycroft a dirty look.

"Well your bloody brother's always pulling my love life apart for his own amusement, why shouldn't I …"

"I think his response might have something to do with the fact that you call him a freak rather too often. Tell me, do you say that to all autistic people, or just to Sherlock?"

"Autistic? But he's … he said he was … well even if he is, that doesn't stop him being a spiteful little prick."

"Very true, but as you can see from his relationship with John, he's not quite the cold hearted monster you believe him to be. In some ways, I wish he were a sociopath, as it would certainly make his work easier. Alas, now he has John, we cannot ever allow harm to come to Dr Watson. Given that the man's military past makes him a reckless idiot and his need for physical affection means he requires a wife and family, it makes our task of keeping him safe and available to Sherlock rather difficult."

"Well what do you want me to do about it?"

"Oh not much really, just stop trying to embarrass and reason John Watson away from my brother. I know that you have been the worst culprit as regards spreading rumours about their relationship to the media, but I will give you some advice."

Mycroft advanced menacingly on Sally and she backed into the wall, suddenly scared of the elder Holmes.

"My brother happens to be asexual, he doesn't feel sexual desire for anyone, but he is fully capable of love. He adores John, but it will never be anything more than platonic. That fact is borne out by the knowledge that John Watson is resolutely straight, I made it my business to find this out, as I couldn't have that sentimental idiot lusting after my brother and ruining what they had with any of the messy feelings that accompany _intercourse_."

Mycroft spat the word as though the thought of sex was as distasteful to him as it was to Sherlock.

"However, I believe that John Watson loves my brother more than anyone ever has, or ever will, myself included. Given what happened with Moriarty, due in part to my error, I have vowed to be more protective of the both of them. So what you see in that room, Ms Donovan, is a love that few of us will ever have the privilege of experiencing. I suggest for your own good that you respect and value their devotion to one another as much as you do your own life, do I make myself clear?"

Sally nodded and Mycroft spun dramatically on his heel and began walking to the doors, before pausing and turning slightly.

"Oh and Ms Donovan, do stop calling my brother a freak. He was taunted with the epithet at school and despite what he tried to hide from me, it did affect him, especially when the culprits beat him so savagely that he ended up in hospital."

Sally let out the breath she didn't know she'd been holding and turned back to witness Sherlock and John ending their hug. John took Sherlock's face in his hands, pulled his head down and placed his lips briefly but tenderly against the consulting detective's forehead. Then the two men made a move to exit the room, Sherlock catching John's hand and linking their fingers. The army doctor paused and looked down, Sally could see him contemplating this sign of affection as being a step too far; this wasn't something platonic friends did. However, Sherlock leaned in and said something and John met his gaze and smiled, conspiratorially and remaining hand in hand, the two men made their way out of the interview room.

They paused on seeing Sally just outside the door. She cleared her throat guiltily.

"I erm … I just wanted to say … I'm glad you're alright … Sherlock."

John stared, half surprised and half amused by hearing Sherlock's name from Sally's lips. Sherlock smirked, more at John's reaction than Sally's awkwardness and looking around briefly, made his deductions.

"Sally, thank you, but I don't think we need to pretend, do we? You hate me, I hate you and there's a kind of respect for each other in amongst all that. I believe Mycroft was well intentioned, but I'd feel unable to work properly, if you and Anderson weren't attempting to bully me."

"Hang on Sherlock, don't you want …?" John tried to interject, thinking that he'd feel a lot better if people didn't insult his best friend, but Sherlock was adamant.

"No John" he said softly, affectionately, squeezing the doctor's hand in reassurance and it made Sally melt a little, to witness the connection to which Mycroft had referred. "I don't want anything to change just because people feel guilty. I _don't_ want pity. I just want the work; it's all that matters."

He smiled then, with a familiar bitter sneer at Donovan and she relaxed, sneering back.

"Ok then, see you around freak. Goodbye John." She followed them and watched as they walked hand in hand through the station, a couple of wolf whistles following, to which John responded with a two fingered salute.

However, Sally realised she had taken on board at least one thing Mycroft had said, she would stop telling John to leave Sherlock, she would stop planting rumours in people's heads and insinuating that the world's only consulting detective didn't have a heart. She knew now that he was capable of being a good man and she knew that John Watson was the reason for that. Especially when she made her way back to her desk to gather some files for Lestrade and found herself near the two men, waiting for the lift.

"John?" Sherlock sounded for all the world like a contrite schoolboy, only relaxing his stance when John looked up at him with a smile "you know when I told Donovan that the work was all that mattered? Well, that's not quite true any more." John was hanging on his every word, but there was a concern on his face for this more emotional Sherlock that had returned from the dead. Maybe three years away had changed him, made him less brilliant, less focused. Would that change how John felt about him?

Sherlock smiled slightly and turning to face his blogger, the two of them still holding hands, he reached out and touched John's face briefly, brushing his fingers over his cheek. "You matter John, you matter as much as the work."

John smiled and felt a lump in his throat again, this time from joy. "Does that make me married to you now? 'Cos I'm not sure Mary would be very happy about me being a bigamist."

Sherlock laughed as the lift arrived. "We'll not tell anyone then. Our secret John."

As the lift doors closed, Sally found herself pondering what Mycroft had said, "a love that few of us will ever have the privilege of experiencing". She could only hope that she'd find something similar one day. She was broken out of her reverie by Anderson strolling up and placing his hand on her shoulder.

"Reckon they're going home for a shag? God it makes you feel sick to think of the freak at it, doesn't it. I reckon he ties John up and …"

"Sean, do you think you can stop being such a sex-obsessed prick for two minutes and have a bit of respect? John Watson's a good man and he just got his best friend back alive. They're happy and if you can't understand that then you're even more of an idiot than Sherlock says you are."

With that, Sally spun on her heel and strode off to talk to Lestrade, leaving Anderson standing in the middle of the office completely speechless, whilst those colleagues who'd overheard his sometime lover give him a dressing down, sniggered at his expense.

"Bloody Sherlock Holmes," he muttered.


End file.
